


you'll find the truth (here in my arms)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma's first day at HYDRA isn't a great one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you'll find the truth (here in my arms)

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this fic for MONTHS and am super excited to finally be done. Yay!
> 
> (So excited that I'm not catching up on comment replies before posting. *hides* Sorry! I'll try to get that done tonight or tomorrow.)
> 
> Title is from _Rumors_ by Adam Lambert feat. Tove Lo. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma’s tour of the labs now under her supervision is both fascinating and exciting…for the first two hours.

They start in the biochem labs, of course; she’s head of _all_ sciences, now, but biochemistry is her specialty, and she thinks it will do her first-day nerves some good to begin where she’s most comfortable. And at first, it does.

Several of her new subordinates pose questions to her. Some of them are clearly tests, which she (naturally) passes with flying colors. Some of them are genuine requests for guidance, which she provides happily and with an ease she knows she wouldn’t have in any other discipline. And some of them, most interestingly, are actually appeals.

It appears her predecessor was disappointingly restrained in the area of experimentation. She doesn’t know how he ever intended for anyone to discover _anything_ , when he turned down what must be three of every four proposals. It’s an appalling lack in a man who was meant to be guiding HYDRA’s scientific efforts, and it eases quite a bit of her guilt over taking his job.

She doesn’t just rubber-stamp all of the proposals he rejected, of course—that would be foolish. But she reads over all of the proposals presented to her and marks them as approved, tentatively approved pending further research, poorly composed, or rejected, as appropriate.

It’s the last that brings her enjoyment of the day to a crashing halt.

A chemist named Tatham hands her a proposal founded on a hypothesis which is so logically flawed that it doesn’t truly deserve the name, and she rejects it at once. He attempts to challenge her decision—a poor idea to begin with, made even less impressive by the fact that his main argument is the number of proposals she’s approved—and she shuts him down at once.

“Your proposal is rejected,” she says, gently but firmly. “And that’s my final word on the matter.”

That should’ve been the end of it. Unfortunately, it seems Tatham isn’t one who deals well with disappointment, because before she makes it more than five steps away from his lab bench, she hears him mutter,

“Can’t believe we have to take orders from Ward’s whore.”

She stops in her tracks as the lab goes dead silent around them. All the blood drains out of Tatham’s face; it’s obvious the words weren’t meant to be so loud. Likely they were intended solely for the woman next to him—a woman who appears to be pretending she’s never seen him before in her life.

Jemma takes a deep breath. He’s hardly the first man to resort to such a sexist attitude when rejected by a woman, and there’s no call for her to take it personally. Nor should she take personally the agreement plain in several of the faces surrounding them.

It’s not truly a surprise they have such an impression, after all, is it? She _knew_ it would ruffle some feathers, her coming in from the outside and being immediately promoted over all of them. And, well, she _is_ sleeping with Grant, so that hardly helps.

Still, hearing the words actually voiced affects her more than she would have expected.

She allows herself the span of three heartbeats to feel the sting of hurt and the burn of humiliation, and then she lets them go. These people will learn soon enough that her new position is well-deserved, and in the meantime, lashing out will do her no favors.

So she restricts herself to giving Tatham her coolest look—the one that was once reserved for condescending adults who cooed over her, calling her pretty and asking whether she’d learnt her multiplication tables yet.

“I could drive a lorry through the holes in your hypothesis,” she says evenly. “If you expect to receive departmental approval, let alone funding, I’m afraid you’ll have to write your own proposals—rather than delegating the task to a first-year university student, which I must assume is what you’ve done, based on the quality.”

Tatham flushes angrily, but he has the sense to keep his mouth shut.

“Carry on,” she adds, pleasantly, and turns to leave.

…Only to pause as she catches sight of her escort. Ortilla’s expression is more than cool—it’s downright threatening.

“Ortilla,” she says. “Shall we continue on?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His eyes are fixed firmly on Tatham, and though his posture is loose and relaxed, she’s spent enough time around specialists to recognize the danger in the set of his chin—in the way his hand rests lightly on his holstered sidearm.

Jemma swallows as the moment drags on. She knew when Grant first introduced them that Ortilla was meant to be more than just a tour guide for her. If all Grant wanted was someone to show her around the labs, he would’ve chosen a scientist; that he assigned her a specialist instead means he likely had something else in mind.

But _precisely_ what more is Ortilla meant to be? As a specialist, he’s not one of her subordinates, but does he outrank her? Or does she have the authority to override him, should he move to harm Tatham?

She has the unfortunate feeling that the answer is no. And while she _knows_ that HYDRA doesn’t value life the way that she does, that she’ll need to become accustomed to seeing people hurt and/or murdered…

Letting it happen on her very first day—and on her account, no less—seems an inauspicious start.

“Ortilla,” she repeats, more firmly. “Let’s go.”

It’s another moment before Ortilla’s gaze moves to her, but it _does_ move. A little of the ice in her spine melts.

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” he says, and that does away with more. “Where to next?”

She actually had intended to spend a little longer in this lab, but it’s probably for the best that she remove Ortilla from Tatham’s vicinity. And in any case, she finds her enthusiasm has been severely dampened.

“The physics labs,” she says. “Please.”

The rest of the tour is…uncomfortable. Everyone is perfectly friendly and deferential, and there are no further rude comments about her, muttered or otherwise. Yet she’s having some difficulty putting Tatham’s words away, and it leaves her unsettled.

Perhaps she imagines the sideways looks and the judgmental undertone to the polite conversations she has in the other labs. Perhaps the surprise her ability to share in intelligent discourse about their experiments and prototypes puts on people’s faces is only in her head. Perhaps they don’t _actually_ look at her with scorn when she admits that she needs to do further research in their respective disciplines before she can approve or deny _their_ previously rejected proposals.

It might only be her lingering mortification. She _hopes_ it is.

But she simply can’t shake the feeling that at least half of her new employees believe she slept her way into her job.

Worse even than that, however?

She can’t shake the feeling that they might be correct.

 

 

With the way her mind is circling, it’s a relief to reach the end of the tour. In fact, it’s a genuine struggle not to hug Ortilla when he tells her they’ve seen all the labs.

“Is there anything else you’d like to see, ma’am?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” she says, attempting a smile. “I think I’ll just return to my quarters.”

Grant’s quarters, really. She has clothes in his closet and a box full of personal belongings on the kitchen table, but there’s no denying that the penthouse she’s been sharing with Grant for the last three days is still very much _his_ , not _theirs_. She’s never even been alone in it; she spent the last two days holed up with Grant and all morning in his office, taking care of the necessary paperwork.

(It really should come as no surprise that an evil organization is fairly _swimming_ in red tape.)

But they’re just outside one of the engineering labs, and the last thing she wants is for anyone to hear her saying that she’s going to be retiring to the head of HYDRA’s quarters. She’s certain _that_ would do nothing for her reputation.

…Those aren’t thoughts she wants to dwell on, though. She doesn’t want to dwell on anything at all.

All she wants is to retreat to the penthouse, draw herself a warm bath, and have a nice cry. She’s certain she’ll be able to put all of these ugly thoughts behind her once she has; she just needs to leech the poison out of her system before it takes root, that’s all. She’ll feel better once she’s alone.

Which is why her heart sinks so quickly as Ortilla grimaces.

“Actually, ma’am,” he says, tone apologetic, “the boss ordered me to escort you back to his office once the tour was done.”

Jemma sighs. As much as she’d like to protest, she knows better. Ortilla might have followed her lead in regards to Tatham, but she doesn’t delude herself into thinking he’ll allow her to overrule Grant. Likely, a refusal will only result in being bodily carried to Grant’s office.

Better to save her dignity.

So, with another attempt at a smile, she motions towards the lifts. “After you, then. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

“No, ma’am,” Ortilla agrees.

He doesn’t accompany her all the way to Grant’s office. In fact, he doesn’t leave the lift. When they reach the appropriate floor, he motions her on and offers a charmingly sloppy salute, and the lift doors close on him the moment she steps out of it.

She hopes she imagines the sideways look the guard on the office door gives her as she crosses the waiting area. Not that she could blame him if she’s _not_ imagining it; surely it’s unusual for people to be admitted into Grant’s office on sight. Likely protocol requires that visitors be announced and secure Grant’s permission before the door is opened.

It’s no wonder that being named an exception to protocol earns her disdain. She’s certain the man is assuming she’s been so excused for Grant’s convenience, that she might be summoned to his office any time he’s feeling randy.

She remembers this morning, the ‘reward’ Grant gifted her for her diligence in completing her paperwork—remembers muffling her cry in his shoulder as he pinned her against the wall and drove her to distraction—and her stomach turns.

“Thank you,” she says, quietly, to the guard, and slips into the office.

Grant isn’t at his desk, and for half a heartbeat she dares to hope that he’s been called away, and she’ll be able to retreat to the penthouse without further delay. Her hopes are quickly dashed, however; it only takes a second to spot him.

He’s at the holocom in the corner, along with his second, Markham, and his assistant, Evie. Markham is clearly in the middle of showing them something important; he’s tapping briskly at the table, and Grant and Evie are both frowning as they study the display. Jemma lingers by the door, hesitant to interrupt, and wonders if she can get away with leaving.

Sadly, it’s not to be.

For all that they seem quite absorbed, it’s obvious that Grant, at least, heard her enter; without looking away from the holocom, he extends his hand to her in a silent invitation, and she sighs.

She’s so ill at ease that the office seems at least twice its actual size as she crosses it to take Grant’s hand. As he laces their fingers and tugs her into his side, Markham and Evie look up, and though their greetings (a polite nod and a small smile, respectively) are friendly enough, embarrassed tears nonetheless sting at her eyes.

All it takes is a single glance at the holocom to know her first impression was correct: the op they’re planning is unquestionably of some importance. Likely, it’s highly classified—classified enough that Ortilla wasn’t even allowed to leave the lift. Yet Jemma, who has barely been a member of HYDRA for three days, is allowed to see it…and not because she has anything of value to contribute to the discussion.

No. She’s allowed in this office, allowed to witness the planning of a classified operation, solely because of Grant’s interest in what’s between her thighs.

She tries not to—tries her absolute hardest—but she can’t help but wonder if Markham and Evie, too, are looking at her and thinking _whore_.

 

 

Likely due to Jemma’s desperation to escape it, the meeting seems to last forever. She does her best to tune it out, to focus on the warmth of Grant’s body against hers and the sound of his voice, rather than what he’s actually saying, but it’s not terribly effective.

Even though no one is paying her any mind, she feels very much on display. She’s absurdly conscious of her every breath, of the slightest brush of her shirt against the holocom as she shifts on her feet, and her stomach is twisting itself into knots. All she wants is to leave, to go upstairs and have her bath and her cry so she can get over this ridiculous mood and set her silly insecurities aside.

And why shouldn’t she? Why should she need Grant’s permission to leave? It’s not as though she’s actually _contributing_ anything to this meeting; surely he doesn’t actually need her here.

Yet the idea that he might stop her if she steps away—might interrupt his important planning on her account, thereby drawing even more attention to how very out of place she is—keeps her frozen.

Still, though. As the meeting drags on, her urge to flee grows, and she’s nearly gotten to the point of risking the attention when Grant switches the holocom off.

“Sounds good,” he says to Markham. “Make it happen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure this doesn’t interfere with the Lionsgate Project,” he orders Evie. “Which, by the way—”

“Ahead of schedule, sir,” Evie says. “I’ll see that it stays that way.”

“Good,” Grant says, and makes a little shooing motion at the two of them. “Then get lost.”

Jemma doesn’t know Evie or Markham very well, but she thinks they seem more amused than offended by Grant’s abrupt dismissal. Even though Grant is very clearly in charge, there’s a sort of camaraderie here, and it makes her ache, a little—though she couldn’t say why.

As soon as the door closes behind Evie and Markham, Grant turns to her with a smile.

“Sorry about that,” he says, and leans down to kiss her. She returns it—because how could she _not_?—but she’s surprised by how much she doesn’t enjoy it. She’s still feeling sick and self-conscious, and even now that they’re alone, she can’t erase the sensation of being under observation.

She experiences a sudden surge of sympathy for the various test subjects she’s had over the years—those poor rodents—but pushes it aside as Grant straightens. He’s frowning, a bit, as though he noticed her reluctance, but he doesn’t comment.

Instead, he asks, “So, how was the tour?”

“Fine,” she says, as he leads her across the office. Freedom (of a sort; she doesn’t imagine she’ll be getting time alone, but at least they’ll be in their quarters) is at hand, so it’s easy to keep her voice light. “Although you actually _undersold_ your labs. They’re very impressive.”

She frowns as they bypass the door—are they _not_ leaving? Goodness, will this day _ever_ end?—in favor of the sitting area near the opposite wall. Is he intending on sitting and having a chat before they go upstairs? Is there a polite way to tell him she wants to be _done_ , already?

Probably not.

“Fine, huh?” he asks, and his deliberately light tone cuts right through her glum musings.

Oh, dear. Is it possible he’s heard about Tatham’s remark?

“Yes,” she says evenly. “Fine.”

“Funny.” His tone is still light, but she sees—as he takes a seat on the couch, pulling her down with him—that his face has darkened severely. “That’s not what I heard.”

“And what did you hear?” she asks.

She’s unhappy to realize that she doesn’t feel comfortable sitting on his lap. It’s ridiculous that she’s let _one_ muttered insult—from a man whose pride was wounded, at that—affect her so terribly, and yet, all she can do is imagine what a picture they must make and what anyone who sees them might think.

It’s awful, and she _wants_ to ignore it. But there are embarrassed tears building in the back of her throat again, and she’ll do herself no favors by crying now. So, resigned, she moves to shift off of Grant’s lap and onto the cushion next to him.

He doesn’t let her.

“What I heard,” he says, holding her easily in place, “is that some suicidal moron in the biochem labs called you a whore.”

She can’t contain a flinch at the word. “Grant—”

“But what I didn’t hear—” He catches her chin as she tries to look away, and her stomach clenches at the fury in his eyes. “—was that you believed it.”

She swallows. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he interrupts. “It’s written all over your face.” His tone gentles as he rubs his thumb over her cheek. “Why would you believe that? You know how I feel about you.”

“Maybe,” she says, because part of her (albeit a small one) still doesn’t believe his claims—still expects to learn that this is all a game, just one more way to hurt her. “But you can’t deny they have a point.”

“The _hell_ I can’t.”

“You’ve given me privileges,” she continues over his reaction (which does, admittedly, warm her). “And power. Power you never would have entrusted to me if we weren’t having sex.”

“Okay, first of all, we’re not _having sex_ ,” he says. “It’s a _relationship_. And I’m gonna keep saying that until you believe it.”

His insistence does ease a little of her doubts, but it does nothing for her discomfort. She tries again to move, and again, he doesn’t let her.

“And second,” he says, “what the hell do you mean, I wouldn’t have given you power if we weren’t together? You’re the smartest woman on the _planet_ , who the fuck else would I put in charge of my labs?”

“Intelligence doesn’t necessarily imply a talent for organization or responsibility,” she points out. “You know nothing of my capacity for leadership; for all you know, I might run your science department into the ground within weeks.”

“ _That_ ,” he says, “is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Stung, she draws back, and he tightens his hold on her hips.

“You were the head of SHIELD’s science department for more than a _year_ ,” he reminds her. “It’s a hell of a reference.”

It’s a fair point—but still. Still.

He must be able to tell that she’s not convinced; though his face softens, his eyes are dark.

“What brought this on?” he asks. “This is about more than just some idiot with a death wish who doesn’t know when to watch his worthless mouth. What’s got you so shaken?”

There’s such gentle worry in his voice, she has to look away. The wall behind Grant’s desk is made entirely of windows, and the rain pounding against them blurs the view into a dreamy impression of a cityscape.

It’s a far cry from working underground.

“SHIELD,” she hears herself say. She doesn’t _mean_ to—but as Grant’s brow furrows, she recognizes the truth of it.

She was a SHIELD agent for so long, and most of her team still claims allegiance to it. She was betrayed and heartsick when she left, and helpless fury still stirs in her gut whenever she thinks of them, but that doesn’t diminish their importance. She can never trust them again, but she loves them still. They’re her _family_.

And it’s all too easy to imagine what they’ll think—what they’ll _say_ —when they learn that she’s joined HYDRA. Surely they know her better than to believe she could ever put faith in HYDRA’s ideology, and she doubts it will take long for word of her relationship with Grant to travel—it’s certainly spread through the building quickly enough.

“Ah,” Grant says.

“What do you think they’ll say,” she asks, keeping her eyes on the windows, “when they realize how soon after leaving them I jumped into bed with you?”

Even picturing their probable reactions is enough to make her chest tight. She tries to tell herself it’s absurd—why should she care about their good opinions, when all of them have so utterly lost hers?—but it doesn’t help at all.

“Nothing good,” Grant admits. “That’s what this is about, then? What the others’ll say when they realize you’re here? They _betrayed_ you, sweetheart. They don’t matter.”

“Joining the enemy rather loses me the moral high ground, I should think,” she murmurs.

Grant tsks, gentle fingers on her jaw forcing her to face him again. “We both know you’re not here because you believe in my cause.”

“That only makes it worse.”

“For them?” he asks, eyes narrowing slightly. “Or for you?”

She swallows, and he sits back against the couch with a sigh.

“Sweetheart…”

Tears sting at her eyes for the nth time today, and she presses her lips together as she struggles against them. His question shines a light on the very heart of the issue, the one that she’s been doing her very best to ignore—the _real_ reason that being called a whore, that realizing so many of his people view her as one, bothers her.

Because she _feels_ like one. SHIELD betrayed her first, so turning against them can be excused. But she’s also betraying her principles, her morals, the very ideals around which she’s built her life.

And for what—a nice lab? Incredible sex and a penthouse view?

“I want to make something very clear,” Grant says, lowly, and buries a hand in her hair to cup the back of her neck. “Everything you’re thinking is wrong.”

The arrogant presumption—that he knows _anything_ of what she’s thinking, let alone all of it, and dares to tell her it’s incorrect—is enough to startle a laugh out of her. A weak one, true, but a laugh nonetheless, and it makes him smile.

Still, his eyes remain serious.

“If you were my whore, you wouldn’t be in my office,” he says, “and you sure as hell wouldn’t be running my labs. If you were my whore, you’d never leave my bedroom.” His fingers trail down the side of her neck as his hand slides out of her hair, raising a wave of goosebumps over her skin. She shivers. “I don’t give power to people who aren’t worthy of it. You’re not here because the sex is amazing. You’re here because I love you—because _you_ love _me_.”

She doesn’t know why that should make a difference, but somehow, it does. It doesn’t make this right, and it doesn’t erase her self-consciousness, but it serves to loosen a few of the knots in her stomach.

“I suppose,” she says, slowly, “people have done worse things for love.”

“Exactly,” he says, pleased.

She’s still out of place in her own skin, and somehow the intensity of his gaze worsens it. Her eyes fall away from his, only to catch on his shirt…or rather, what his shirt reveals.

He’s wearing one of those Henleys that suit him so well, and the collar is low enough to show the skin at the base of his neck—to show the mark she left there last night. She brushes her fingers over it, smiling to herself as she remembers giving it to him: his hand in her hair, the groan trapped in his throat—how he laughed, later, teasing her and accusing her of being just as possessive as he is.

There’s been a lot of laughter in general, up in the penthouse. The sex is intense, but it can be playful, too—and even outside of it, Grant’s sense of humor compliments hers nicely. They’ve had _fun_ , in and out of bed.

She’s laughed more in the past three days than she has in the last _year_.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be happy,” he says, following her thoughts as easily as always. He rubs a soothing hand up her thigh, and she raises her eyes to find him smiling gently. “And I make you happy, don’t I?”

“Yes,” she admits through the lump that has suddenly appeared in her throat. “Very much.”

“Good,” he says, and kisses her briefly. “I’m glad.”

That awful prickling feeling—the awkward tension that evokes the sense of being under observation—hasn’t yet disappeared. A single conversation, no matter how intense or sincere, isn’t enough to undo the damage this entire day has wrought upon her state of mind.

But she _is_ happy, with him, after months (or maybe even years) of misery within SHIELD. And though it might make her selfish or greedy or whatever else, she’s just not quite ready to give that up.

So she sits forward in his lap for a _real_ kiss, slides her fingers over his jaw and into his hair, smiling against his lips as his hands come up at once to hold her close. Heat suffuses her, and she lets it chase away the chill of self-consciousness, the sickening awareness of the windows and the unlocked door.

She’s very nearly breathless when a sudden crack of thunder startles them apart, and only Grant’s grip keeps her from tumbling backwards off of his lap.

“Careful,” he says, voice rough, and she surprises herself by giggling. “What?”

“Nothing.” She smooths down his hair, which has been quite impressively ruffled by the pass of her hands, and smiles as he rolls his eyes.

His matching smile fades far sooner than she’d like. Her heart sinks. “Jemma—”

“Grant,” she interrupts. “We could talk this to death; it wouldn’t change anything.”

She’d much rather just let it go and get on with things. She’s sure the embarrassment will go away eventually, if she ignores it long enough.

“No,” he agrees, “it wouldn’t. What you need is time.” He cups her cheek, and she leans into his hand, trying to force away unhappy thoughts with the simple pleasure of his touch. “ _More_ time. I’m sorry, sweetheart; I shouldn’t have rushed you into taking over the labs.”

She’d like to reassure him that he didn’t rush her, but…well. He rather did. Still, she knows he meant well.

“You were right,” she says. “I’d have been bored senseless by the end of the week if I didn’t get back to work.”

“Yeah,” he says, “but there’s a difference between loving the enemy and working with him. I should’ve given you more time to adjust. So I’m sorry.”

That’s two apologies in one minute, and _sorry_ isn’t a word he uses often. She kisses him once more, gently.

“Apology accepted,” she says. “Thank you.”

One of his hands slips up under her shirt to rest against the bare skin of her back. It’s not an urgent touch, nor one meant to turn into something more. It’s just simple, intimate comfort.

“If you don’t wanna start working yet, you don’t have to,” he says. “The deputy head can take over until you get your feet under you—no matter how long it takes.”

Part of her—the small, wounded part that dreads the thought of going back down to the labs tomorrow, of forcing herself to face down the condescending and judgmental stares of her subordinates—finds that a very attractive offer.

But the part of her that sustained her through university courses taken with classmates a decade or more older than her bats that part aside. She is a brilliant scientist, a literal genius who can think rings around ninety-nine percent of the people working for Grant. She is _not_ going to hide in their quarters like a scared child.

“No,” she says, steeling her spine. “No, I’ve already started. I’m not going to quit now.”

“That’s my girl,” Grant says.

Buoyed by his proud smile, she kisses him swiftly and then stands. This time, he makes no move to stop her.

“Now,” she says, catching his hand and tugging until he’s on his feet, “I’ve had a _very_ long day, and all I want is a nice bath.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow. “That’s _all_ you want?”

The part of her that wants to say ‘yes, actually, that’s all’ is the same part that wants to hide—the silly, foolish-little-girl part of her so easily bruised by the opinions of others—and she didn’t get to be the youngest-ever graduate of the SciTech Academy by listening to _her_.

“For now,” she says instead, favoring him with a flirty little smile. “But if you ask nicely, I might let you scrub my back.”

There’s a wicked edge to the smile she gets in return, and he pulls her in close for a heated kiss.

“I can be _very_ nice,” he promises, as she tries to catch her breath. “There’s one tiny little thing I have to take care of before I can join you, but once I’m done…” He thumbs her lower lip, already swollen from his attentions. “I’m definitely gonna earn that privilege.”

For all that his tone is seductive, he manages to infuse it with a flattering amount of sincerity, and her heart warms with affection.

“Shall I wait for you?” she asks.

“Nah,” he says, nudging her towards the door. “You go ahead. I’ll be up in a bit.”

She’s almost thankful for the excuse to go alone—she would have held his hand out of the office, of course, but all the resolve in the world wouldn’t have been enough to drown out how self-conscious she would have felt about it.

Additionally, discomfort or no, a moment alone surely _will_ do her some good. She’s happy to leave Grant to his business—at least for a little while.

“Don’t take too long,” she warns, and he smiles.

“I’ll be as quick as humanly possible,” he vows, and sees her out the door with one last kiss.

Nothing’s changed, really, in the time she’s been in his office. Those in the building who consider her a whore undoubtedly still do, and certainly her own feelings on the matter are no less tangled than they were before her conversation with Grant.

Still, having addressed the problem—and having received firm assurance that Grant doesn’t hold with that opinion—has gone a ways to easing her troubled heart. Nothing has been _fixed_ , but her burden has nonetheless been lightened, and she’s able to cross to the lift and enter it without worrying about what the guard on duty might be thinking.

And really, she’s survived much worse than _gossip_ , hasn’t she? She’s safe, here in HYDRA, safe and happy with the man she loves—with the man who loves _her_ , enough to take time out of his day to offer comfort and reassurance, enough to apologize when he hardly ever does so.

In the face of _that_ , what’s a little bad press, anyway?

 

 

(It’s not until she’s settled in upstairs that it occurs to her that Grant’s _tiny little thing to do_ might be related to Tatham and his unkind words. It doesn’t upset her nearly as much as it should.

But then, she’s had a long day.)


End file.
